


This Is a Story About Sandwiches

by EAU1636



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Character Death In Dream, Gen, Happy Ending, I don't know how to tag this because I don't know what it is, M/M, Sandwich angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23911117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636
Summary: It becomes a joke between the two men, not at Morse’s expense, as he is used to, but an inside joke that for once he doesn’t stand outside of.  Later it becomes their litmus test, if there is banter about sandwiches, they are alright. Morse finds something almost embarrassingly comforting in the unvaried dependability of those sandwiches.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Fred Thursday, Fred Thursday/Win Thursday, Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 26
Kudos: 45





	This Is a Story About Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what this weird, tiny fic is or if it's worth posting? Too much time ruminating on fictional sandwiches? It took my mind off real life and my uncooperative WIPs for a bit, so it served its purpose.

It’s the sort of thing Morse notices, an observer of the minutiae of other people’s lives, accustomed to the view of a spectator rather than a participant. His eyes are drawn to the wax paper edges, as carefully tucked in as a child in bed. The time when someone fed him with this sort of thoughtful regularity lies beyond the reach of memory. With a mind made for puzzles, he feels a secret delight when he first spots the pattern. It becomes a joke between the two men, not at Morse’s expense, as he is used to, but an inside joke that for once he doesn’t stand outside of. Later it becomes their litmus test, if there is banter about sandwiches, they are alright. Morse finds something almost embarrassingly comforting in the unvaried dependability of those sandwiches. The Thursdays are exactly the sort of family he pictures in hazy daydreams of someday, they’re what he’s longed to be a part of for so long. And the sandwiches are an emblem of that love, that stability. They are something he can count on, as sure as the days of the week. 

* * *

It started when the children were still small. Routine was what kept Win from feeling overwhelmed by the constant demands of young children and a husband who might be called away at a moment’s notice. They were new to Oxford, and as beautiful as she found her new home, she felt rather unmoored at first. They needed a rhythm to their days, and setting that rhythm was up to her. The sandwiches had been one small part of that. The pattern in place, she didn’t need to spend time deciding what to fix them all for lunch. There was no whining that Joan wanted this or Sam wanted that, they all knew what to expect and on what day their particular favorite would be on offer. As the children grew the pattern continued, even as first Sam and then Joan left, and it was only herself and Fred to feed. She felt a gnawing loneliness with the children gone, her days carried an emptiness that she did not know how to fill. But she tried to keep busy, to maintain her routine. She still had Fred to look after. Sending him off for the day with a kiss, the sandwich felt almost like a shield she was handing him, something he could carry with him and feel cared for, something to remind him of what was waiting for him at home. 

* * *

It doesn’t happen all at once, the chasm opening up between them. Win’s angry, she’s every right to be, but they’ve had their ups and downs before. But before there had been the children, the shared moments of family life that helped to bridge the gap. Now there are just the two of them, neither willing to be the one to bend, both splintering under the weight of their sunken hopes. Nothing is as Fred had imagined it would be. And bit by bit he feels the seams fraying from the life they’ve sewn together. The comforts he’d become so used to that they’d faded from notice are glaring in their absence. No more freshly ironed shirts awaiting him in the morning, no more warm kisses when he walks through the door at night, no more sandwiches lovingly wrapped and handed to him at the start of the day. Tired of pub lunches, he starts to make his own in the mornings. They’re a mess at first, nothing like the neat and orderly ones Win used to make. Such a simple thing, but he realizes the care that she put into the task, all those years. He picks up the pattern again, trying to recapture what he’s lost, knowing they can’t go back to their old rhythm, but hoping that with time they might be able to find a new one, together. 

* * *

Hands trembling, Morse takes a last deep drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out beneath his shoe. He walks into the morgue to find Max standing beside the gleaming metal table. The body lies covered beneath the white sheet, immune to the cold, to the grief of the man standing beside it. 

Max turns when he hears Morse come in and walks a step towards him.

“Morse,” he tilts his head down just a bit as he speaks, like a teacher addressing an unruly but much loved student, “This isn’t your case. You don’t need to do this.”

“I owe him that much at least,” Morse says with quiet determination.

Max sighs. He walks closer to Morse, away from the body on the table. “There’s not much I can tell you yet. It was quick, he wouldn’t have known much.”

Morse looks up at the ceiling, trying to hold back the tears.

“Have you any idea who he was there to meet?” Max asks quietly.

Morse shakes his head. “No. We hadn’t spoken in awhile. Just a nod here and there when we crossed paths. I let it go on too long. I was too proud to reach out. I should have done more. I should have known. I should have been there.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference, except to increase my workload. There’s nothing you could have done,” Max’s voice is kind but firm.

“His effects are over there if you want to have a look,” Max adds, pointing to a tray over on a small table. “Nothing to tell us who he was meeting or what his plans were.”

“I imagine his plans were to go about his ordinary work day and to be home now, where he belongs,” Morse can’t help the bitter anger in his voice, though none of this is Max’s fault.

Max walks over to the tray of personal effects and Morse follows.

“Keys, money clip, pipe and tobacco,” Max says quietly.

Morse stands over the tray but doesn’t touch it. His fingers grip the side of the table.

“ _There’ll be in his pockets things he used to put there, keys and pennies covered with tobacco_ ,” Morse quotes softly.

Max looks at him with sorrow and understanding in his eyes. “ _Life must go on.”_

Coming from Max the words seem almost true.

Beside the other items rests a waxed paper package, hastily wrapped up that morning and placed inside a jacket pocket for lunch time.

“Wednesday,” Morse says, his voice breaking, “Bacon, lettuce and tomato.”

Neither man can put words to the last item atop the table. The somewhat battered black hat, with brim slightly bent, as though bowed by grief.

* * *

  
  
  


Morse wakes with a feeling of unreality, a sickening fear twisting his stomach. It takes him a few moments to get his bearings. Then he hears the reassuring snores coming from the warm body nestled beside him. Even the man’s snoring is endearing. Morse snuggles up to Max, gently draping his arm over him and threading his fingers through the other man’s. For so many years Morse awoke from nightmares to find only the echoing solitude of an empty room. Now, Max sighs and brings their intertwined hands to his lips and plants a sleepy kiss on Morse’s wrist. 

“Bad dream?” Max asks, with eyes still shut, unwilling to be roused completely from his contented sleep.

“Mmm,” Morse replies, not wanting to revisit the dark dread of the dream for even a moment. He wants to put it out of his head entirely, and knows just how to do it. He nuzzles his face up against Max and leaves a trail of soft, eager kisses up the side of his neck. These attempts met only with another sleepy sigh, Morse’s teeth tug gently on Max’s earlobe as he wraps himself even tighter around the soft body beside him and rubs his foot playfully but insistently against Max’s. Admitting defeat, Max opens his eyes and succumbs to Morse’s stubborn charms. 

Later that morning Morse pulls up outside the familiar house and walks to the front door. His knock is met almost immediately by an open door and Win’s kind smile. 

“Come in dear,” she says, ushering him into the hallway and grabbing her hat from the stand. Fred comes into the hall and she gives him a quick kiss and pats his chest affectionately, “Come home safe.”

“Have a good day, love,” Fred replies with affection. 

Win gives Morse’s arm a squeeze on her way out. 

Fred heads to the kitchen and returns with two sandwiches, carefully wrapped in wax paper. He hands one to Morse.

“What’s this?” Morse asks.

“You’re a detective, figure it out,” Fred says gruffly, but with humor tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I mean, there's no need,” Morse mumbles, his cheeks reddening, “I can find my own lunch.”

“I had an extra. Made it for Win, but she’s having lunch out with the girls from work today. It isn’t the crown jewels,” he says with exasperation, as Morse holds it out like he’s unsure what to do with it, “It’s only a sandwich, Morse.”

“Not bacon, lettuce and tomato is it?” Morse can’t keep himself from asking. 

“Talk sense,” Fred replies incredulously, “It’s Thursday.”

“So it is,” Morse says with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> So this started because I was thinking about how I want the Wednesday sandwich to be revealed before the show ends, and I hope they do it in a way that packs an emotional punch, like with the corned beef in Canticle. I thought of the morgue seen as one way to do that, but then decided it was too depressing. So I made it a dream sequence and gave everyone a happy ending instead because the joy of fanfiction is that I can do whatever I want with it!
> 
> I didn't edit much or agonize over every word like I usually do in my fics because I just wanted to have fun for once dammit. So I know it doesn't exactly form a cohesive whole. Whatever. Also I wish I could think of a more exciting sandwich, but settled for a boring BLT.
> 
> The poem Morse and Max quote is Lament by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
> 
> Listen, children:  
> Your father is dead.  
> From his old coats  
> I'll make you little jackets;  
> I'll make you little trousers  
> From his old pants.  
> There'll be in his pockets  
> Things he used to put there,  
> Keys and pennies  
> Covered with tobacco;  
> Dan shall have the pennies  
> To save in his bank;  
> Anne shall have the keys  
> To make a pretty noise with.  
> Life must go on,  
> And the dead be forgotten;  
> Life must go on,  
> Though good men die;  
> Anne, eat your breakfast;  
> Dan, take your medicine;  
> Life must go on;  
> I forget just why.


End file.
